


Qivuak

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sex Pollen, Treat, lowkey angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: At a Red London festival, Holland drinks something he shouldn't have.





	Qivuak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliencupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencupcake/gifts).



Holland thinks he has never lain on a bed that was as soft as this one. Dimly, he knows that does not make logical sense. Yes, he’s in Red London, where everything is more luxurious to the point of obscenity. But this is the back room of an inn, and not the nicest of inns at that. The cotton is cheap in the sheets and pillow, the wool scratchy on the blanket (he’s lying on top of the covers, clothes all still on, even his weapons still in place), and the air smells partly of roses but largely of spilled alcohol from maybe a day or so ago, never fully cleaned.

But somehow the scratchy wool is pleasant. He wants to wrap himself up in the blanket, rub his whole body against it, even though the friction might even rub the skin red and raw. His fingers are clumsily working at the buttons of his coat but when he has it undone he realizes that to take it off he would have to get upright and he’s not sure he has the energy to do that.

It’s not that he feels sapped or dazed. No—his body burns with energy. He has never felt so aware of his own magic, never felt so aware of his own atmosphere—or so he thinks now, though again he feels this must be a fallacy—but at the same time he clings to the surface of the bed, dizzied and somehow entranced by the lingering scent of the last person to lie here. He does not recognize the scent but it is human. Somehow that is enough.

Overall, the room smells like roses. He used to think he was used to the stench. Now with his mouth slightly parted he feels that he is imbibing a sweet flowery liquor.

Like, perhaps, the one he drank earlier.

Yes, he drank…he knows he drank something earlier. Qivuak, that was what the man had called it, a name that sounded foreign even to the little Arnesian Holland has been learning. He drank it down because it was a festival. Astrid and Athos told him to find out what a Red London festival was like down to the last custom, and he investigated. He had not intended to become involved personally or actually enjoy it, but he couldn’t help it. Even after all these years he still gets a little overwhelmed watching Red Londoners sing and dance in their parades.

And then, he remembers the man selling the beverages. “Test your strength. Test your strength!”  Giggling couples ran up to the man and bought small flasks from him, stealing away with small smiles or even swigging them down as soon as they were bought. They had left flushed and hurried. Holland had been curious about what the drink might be, and somehow the idea of testing his strength had got him to spend a few coins and then…

Holland isn’t sure.

He can remember details. The colors of the parade suddenly brighter than before, heat rushing through his own veins and straight to his groin. He remembers trembling (he’s trembling even now), and then a hand on his arm, and he had melted into the touch, allowed it to lead him here, but then it had left and he…

He should leave too. Rejoin the festival. He manages to bring himself upright with the thought of how many people there are outside (and, oddly enough, the thought of the lithe bodies of the dancers, and how the crowd presses together). As he sits up he drops his coat on the floor at last, but he is still hot. He is also hard. Has been for a while now, longer than usual. He feels no desire to touch himself, only a desire to rejoin the crowd, find a friend…

The door to the room opens.

“I left him in here, your highness, I thought it was best…”

Holland smells Kell before he sees him. He only sees Kell once every couple months, when they are both at the same court at the same time, but he knows his voice and smell far better than he should. And his image, every detail of his face and body, seems to crystallize in Holland’s vision like it’s been there all along and is only now coming into focus.

“Holland.”

Kell does not smile. That is one of the best things about him, though. Holland has often hated Kell’s softness but at least he doesn’t go around grinning like an idiot. There’s something grave and understanding about him. Holland has always…well, he hasn’t always thought that, but he’s thinking it now. He’s thinking Kell, with his red and embellished coat and his sincerely severe expression, is the best sight he’s seen all day, the most incredible thing in Red London.

He finds that without even noticing it he has come to Kell and they are standing inches apart, breathing in each other’s breaths. Kell puts a hand to his forehead, and Holland leans into the touch. Kell turns back and says to someone, “When did he take the qivuak?”

“I don’t know, sire. I found him on the streets staring at nothing.”

Holland’s hands have somehow found their way to Kell’s waist. Kell has tiny hips compared to Holland. He is very small and fragile for an Antari. Holland’s hands tighten.

“I think you should leave,” Kell says. Not to Holland, so it doesn’t really matter. The sound of a shutting door.

Kell tries to push Holland away, but Holland pulls him close, into his arms. Kell has the richest smell Holland has ever known. It mixes the scents of all the Londons, ash and blood and smoke and dirt and flowers and wine. Largely the blood part. Maybe that’s Antari scent. Maybe Holland smells like that too. He wishes, sadly, he were able to smell himself.

Kell says, “I want you to know I won’t hold this against you.”

Holland puts his lips on Kell’s neck and inhales deeply.

Kell says, “I hope you won’t hold this against me, either.”

It’s not enough. Holland opens his mouth and bites down, hard. He barely draws blood but it tastes deliciously heady.

Kell makes a small whimper but does not really react. He pushes Holland backwards but walks with him as he goes, not really forcing Holland off him but only walking him over to the bed, where he pushes him to sit down. Holland is willing. He pulls Kell down with him, continuing to lap at the blood on his neck. It occurs to him that while the best thing about Kell is that he doesn’t smile, the worst thing about him is that he is wearing far too many layers. He pulls at the bottom of Kell’s shirt, working it up from the pants.

Kell grabs his hands and holds them in place. Holland lets him. He doesn’t want to stop taking Kell’s shirt off but the contact is nice.

They are frozen in place for a moment. Holland is hard. He moves one hand down slightly—Kell allows him that much—and yes, Kell is hard too. He tries to stroke and Kell grabs hold again, firm.

“Let me.” He realizes as he speaks that he has not spoken thus far. His voice is hoarse.

Kell’s voice is less hoarse, but it shakes a little. “I’d rather get this over with.”

The words don’t make sense. Holland tries to stroke Kell’s hips again—he seemed to be fine with that, at least—but Kell pulls away slightly, gets off the bed and drops to his knees. Holland wants to protest but then Kell is unbuttoning his pants and oh, all right then. That’s fine.

(At this angle, he can see how the blood is drying on Kell’s skin, mixed with Holland’s saliva. It will be brown soon, which is too bad. Everything about Kell should be red. Everything.)

Kell pulls Holland’s cock out of his pants and Holland shifts forward to grant him access. “Kell.” The only bad thing about this is how little of Kell he can touch when he wants to embrace him, swallow him up entirely, but then Kell swallows him instead and Holland has no complaints. The air sparks and swirls. Pleasure builds and Holland moans, but oddly the heat in his blood is growing less intense. It feels like all his restlessness is focused into a point now, drawn into Kell’s careful, efficient mouth, fastened on his swirling tongue.

He comes without warning Kell, making Kell gag. Hears Kell choke and spit on the floor. He collapses backward on the bed, energy completely gone.

The room smells of sex now, but it feels like the stink of roses is gone. Holland can barely smell Kell anymore. He no longer feels restless. He doesn’t feel much of anything.

“Kell,” he murmurs.

Kell puts a hand on his forehead again, but Holland is too tired to react. He hears Kell say, “You should be fine” as he drifts off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He awakes maybe a couple hours later. Kell is sitting on the edge of the bed. He offers Holland a cup of water. Holland sits up for it easily. The room no longer spins. Something feels off about his magic—it’s a little inert and weak, as if he just got over a fever—but his head is finally clear.

He is not sure what to say. Fortunately, Kell speaks first.

“White London doesn’t have qivuak.”

“What is the damn thing?” Holland asks.

“It’s…well, it’s an aphrodisiac.” This, of all things, makes Kell blush.

That had been obvious. But Holland frowns. “Most potions would not work on me so strongly. An Antari has a natural resistance.”

“It’s because you’re an Antari that it was so strong,” Kell says. “Qivuak creates arousal and disorientation in the user in proportion to their store of magic. For most people it doesn’t do that much. Some powerful magic users like to use it to show off in the bedroom.” He shrugs. He has been looking closely at Holland, checking for aftereffects, but he won’t meet his eyes.

“You’ve used it,” Holland says.

“No.”

“You know its effects.”

Kell again shrugs. “Yes. Its effects get more powerful in the presence of other strong magic users. It continues to work until the user reaches satisfaction. But there’s a large magical discharge when that happens, and if the partner isn’t strong enough to take it there can be bad side effects. That’s why the inn keeper sent for me…”

Instead of finding a cheap prostitute. Though, Holland is surprised anyone bothered to take care of him. On the streets of White London anyone wandering around in an aroused, magic-induced haze would be killed within minutes, especially someone as powerful as Holland. But here, he gets the prince of the city sucking his cock.

He should thank Kell, maybe. But he doesn’t want to. He didn’t ask for anything, and if Red London didn’t have ridiculous magical customs he wouldn’t have gotten into trouble in the first place. It’s Red London’s job to take care of its own mess, and Kell’s to take care of inter-London issues, so really Kell has only executed his duty. Holland can’t say he’d do as much as suck Kell’s dick if he were called upon himself…

(Though when he thinks about it, he’s not sure he’d object. Odd, when only a few hours ago he would have been repulsed at the idea of submitting to the baby prince Antari. Now part of him wishes he could kneel and repay Kell’s favor—but no, he’s not thinking of it as a favor, and he’s certainly not thinking of it as anything personal, because that is not a road he’s going down, not with Kell, not with anyone, not with Athos Dane’s brand over his heart.)

…But he’d probably find some other way to take care of the matter if necessary. And frankly, if you think about it, Kell could have come up with something too, surely. Maybe he just wanted to suck Holland’s cock. Maybe he liked the thought of Holland that much under his power. That’s a better way to think about it. It makes Holland scowl and reach for his coat and buckle down again, and all that is much safer than being grateful.

“I hope this hasn’t ruined your visit to the city,” Kell says, again to fill the silence.

“I’ll be sure to tell my king and queen about your interesting customs,” Holland says.

Kell nods. “Apologize to them for our placing you in harm’s way.”

It’s easier to talk this way, as if it’s all been a diplomatic matter. Yes, Holland will report it all to the Danes this way. He will be matter of fact. They will not. He already knows that. They will laugh and laugh and laugh at him, getting taken advantage of by a simple seller of philters. Then, worse, they will ask him what he thought of Kell’s…performance, whether he liked it, whether the prince of Red London is pretty bleeding and on his knees. And Holland will have to tell the truth, and watch them smirk and glance at each other.

Probably won’t make a difference in the long run. Holland will emphasize his own discomfort over Kell’s involvement. And Astrid already sees Kell as a pretty thing to be used and broken, so this report won’t make a difference. She’ll just be jealous Holland got here before her.

He finds a twisted smile has sprouted on his face.

“Can I help you with anything else?” Kell says. He winces when Holland looks up at him. Saying “anything else” implies that Kell has already helped him with something, which they are both trying to ignore.

Holland stands. His coat is firmly buttoned now. He gives Kell one long final look. While Holland was sleeping he washed the blood off his neck, and there is no mark there anymore. Holland itches to touch the place where he knows he bit. That’s illogical, the physical remnants of a purely physical encounter. He shakes his head.

“I think I will return to the festival for a while longer.”

“I hope you enjoy it.” Kell smiles, a spasm of hospitality. Holland hates it.

He is out the door before Kell even puts his coat back on. As he leaves the inn, he sees the servers at the bar staring at him. Gossip travels fast. Maybe by the end of the day everyone in the city will know the prince of their city debauched the foreign Antari. He wonders if they will see Kell as weak for it or as generous, or if perhaps they’ll see it all as some lustful game between powerful magicians. Here sex is as coveted as power, after all. They might even envy him, having a prince on his knees. Envy him as Astrid and Athos surely will.

He sweeps into the streets, but the rosy stink that had so overwhelmed him before, the rushing crowd and the fierce colors and sounds, are nothing compared to the roar of his thoughts. And despite himself, he thinks of Kell. How he can't help but feel a spark of warmth towards someone who went so far in order to take care of him. There is no way, he thinks, that he will be able to protect Kell from what's coming, but he'll have to try his best. He doesn't know if there's any way to protect anyone from Astrid and Athos, but at the very least he's better equipped than Kell is, and Kell did his best for Holland. Holland will have to find some way now to return the favor.

**Author's Note:**

> I was happy to see someone requesting Kell/Holland who would be fine with some weird shit. On the other hand, I'm not sure if this is too close to an unhappy ending for you, but this is as close to a happy ending as I could get in this fic so I hope it's good enough for you to still enjoy it. I mean, if you headcanon Kell still defeating Astrid and Athos, then things really do work out.


End file.
